
H2£6&S 


FT MEADE 
GenCol 1 











































JM 28 1899 


SADAKICHI HARTMANN 


Schopenhauer in the Air 


SEVEN STORIES 

TWO COPIES REC 'IVED. 


'Vttict U - 


/A- 

0l frfT 



AUTHOR’S EDITION 


New York, 1899 



Copyrighted by SADAKICHI HARTMANN 
1899 


^ C\ AA. * 


24607 


CONTENTS. 

V SCHOPENHAUER IN THE AIR. 

J MAGNOLIA BLOSSOMS. 

./critical moments. 

/dreary windblown yellow meads. 

CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LIGHTHOUSE. 

'/ UNDER THE BIRCH TREES. 

THE WIFE OF THE SYMBOLIST. 


























































































ft* 

























FHOTO BY ZAIDA BEN-YUSUF. 



To /f. P. Rydtr. 

SCHOPEHAUER IN THE AIR. 

(1894.) 

It was a dismal grey-in-grey evening, the atmosphere 
laden with moisture, as if it had not the energy to condense 
into rain, like forlorn moods of world strangeness and nos- 
taglia when the human soul would seek relief in weeping 
and finds itself incapable of tears. 

Under an old battered lamp post whose head was bent to 
one side as if weary of its vain endeavor to brighten that 
cheerless scene, a little girl with folded arms and crouching 
head crouched on the curbstones. Only when a slight 
draught floated through the broken panes of the lantern „ 
the flickerng flame shed a vague, hasty glare over the dry,, 
haggard form of the little minx, whose dull eyes were seen 
to throw searching glances along the gutter, as if in quest 
of some unknown treasure hidden in the mud. 

Suddenly she started up, her eyes, growing wide, had 
caught sight of something lying within her hand’s reach, — 
a little pale green lump ; she stretched out her foot and 
examined it with her toes. It was a single grape, slightly 
rotten on one side, that had dropped into the gutter. On 
recognizing what it was, she picked it up with greedy 
fingers, while her homely, careworn face became distorted 
with a grinning grimace, which was meant for joy. She 
began to suck the little fruit, and her harsh features 
assumed an air of gentleness for the moment, that relaxed 
as soon as the pleasure was over, into that phlegmatic 
expression of despair, which in older beings interprets 
disgust of life. 

The occasional passers-by hardly noticed her ; the picture 
she made was so insignificant in composition, so faded in 
tone, without the slightest suggestion of brightness in her 


2 


dirty face, streaky hair and ragged, patched clothes, that 
it disappeared entirely in the background of the muddy 
pavement, on which the reflections of the lantern glim- 
mered like luring gold. 

Had she been older, one would have supposed she was 
thinking, but the little girl had not yet learned to think, 
nor was she really conscious of or responsible for the stam- 
mering expressions of her soul battered like the lamp post. 
In her mind one blurred picture followed the other, and 
these impressions made out her life, as they make out that 
of every child, and also that of many growh-up persons, 
but hers were all steeped in mud like her feet. They were 
like figures we see with closed eyes, weaving to an fro in a 
room deprived of light, the forms and meanings of which 
we cannot define. Only now and then some object stood 
out in that chaos of sombre colors, — a huge beer pitcher 
which she could hardly carry when filled — rings of spilt 
liquor — a broken pipe — a hairy fist on the table — two 
drunken forms in a squalid room — a stagnant atmosphere 
never purified with sunshine, and with them all the associ- 
ations of sound, familiar to her : coarse laughter, hoarse 
voices, curses and bestial exclamrtions. 

A stout, blear-eyed wench brushing the face of the little 
girl with her greasy, rose-colored wrapper, stepped off the 
sidewalk to cross the street. She saw that spot of color 
waddling across the sunken, filthy pavement and disappear- 
ing in the frivolity of a nocturnal scene formed by a loafing 
crowd before a lighted saloon on the opposite sidewalk. 
For a moment she felt like following that luring apparition 
and, after wading through the mire of sin, losing herself 
in that deluding brightness. But she did not give way to 
the temptation and remained as before in her crouching 
position, with gloomy face. Her unconscious meditation 
returned to the former pictures, which grew darker and 
still darker, the web of her consciousness being spun with- 
out the former threads of blackish blue and red. 

The shrill sound of a bell ! An ambulance dashed through 
the street. Men and women interrupted their flirtation 


3 


and craned their necks with curious astonishment to witness 
an event so commonplace in a large city, but nevertheless, 
an excitement, a vibration, a break in the appaling, un- 
bearable monotony of routine life. 

The little girl had also risen, but slowly, not like the 
others, and now moved along slowly, as if by mere accident, 
in the same direction. Her thin legs gradually moved in a 
quicker rhythm, and aimless she pressed forward with her 
head still crouching and swaying abruptly from side to side, 
along the long street with its dark rows of tenement houses, 
one looking exactly like the other, and indicating by their 
dismal similarity that they also shelter human beings, lead- 
ing, one exactly like the other, a monotonous routine life,, 
minute for minute, and score for score, void of all ideal 
pleasures, and growing darker and more deserted towards 
its end, like the streets as the little outcast neared the river. 

The oppressing atmosphere, spreading like a veil of 
despondency over city and seeming to absorb all sounds 
and colors, bored itself without pity into every sensitive 
soul. Poets and artists hastened into the taverns or to 
their own humble homes, for to abandon oneself, like the 
little girl, to the atmosphere of such a night might prove 
dangerous to one’s pulse. 

Suddenly she found herseff at the end of the wharf, look- 
ing into the water, lapping against the framework like the 
soft caresses of living hands. Before her lay the river, a 
dark, sluggishly floating mass, on whose surface the con- 
vulsive play of rising and falling waves was hardly percep- 
tible. In the distance a few forlorn lights blinked like the 
solitary moments of joy in our life of disappointment. The 
outlines of huge storehouses, looking like medieval castles 
with towers and turrets in the dim atmosphere, suggested 
vague reveries to her, never felt before. Profound silence 
lay on the river. Only far from the distance a melancholy 
melody was wafted over ; some boatsman playing on a har- 
monica. Then a ferryboat with its many lighted windows 
floated by like a phantom. Was it a vision of our life, so 
full of delusion, so beautiful, and yet nothing but a passing 
show — transparent glass and artificial light ? 


4 


The little girl stood for a long time on the extreme edge 
of the framework ; she had raised her head and breathed 
slowly and calmly ; her face looked less gloomy. Suddenly 
she straightened herself, opened her arms as if to embrace 
that night with all its dark dreams and desires — a little 
black figure fell — a splash in the water — a suppressed 
scream that almost sounded like a laugh of satisfaction — 
then everything grew silent as before, only where the child 
had disappeared the circles on the dark and desolate flood 
became wider and wider until they met with the foaming 
keel water of the phantom boat of happiness, that invaria- 
bly glides by on the gray river of our life. 


To James McNeil Whistler. 

MAGNOLIA BLOSSOMS. 

(1894.) 

On both sides a mile’s expanse of water, calm and dark ; 
in the distance the sombre silhouettes of proud, towering 
cedar trees, festooned with grapevines ; here and there the 
lighted villa of a sugar plantation ; seldom a free vista on 
prairie land, and even then a dim line indicating that the 
forest was not far off. 

What a night it was! My soul had left its body to lose 
itself in the wild unrestrained beauty around me — from 
where it came — and only left a trembling suggestion of its 
existence within me. The other passengers moved around 
me like shadows, and again and again my eyes drank in all 
the glory and wealth of that night. 

And then suddenly, I felt that something which concerned 
me came towards me: a female form. I wanted to step 
aside ; before I could accomplish it, we stood opposite each 
other, perhaps only for a few seconds, perchance for a 
minute, drawn by irresistable powers towards each other, 
and in that moment I w T as with one stroke brought back to 


5 


the earth ; all that dream of silver and grey faded and 
made the river look a weary waste of monotony. 

My mind resented that a woman, a perfect stranger, 
could have such power over me ; I tried to lose myself 
again in the scene around me, in vain! The stranger with 
her large, dark eyes had captivated me, and however I 
struggled to resist I had to look again and again at her 
seductive form. 

There she stood, proud and erect, like an incarnation of 
tempting womanhood, like the magnolia trees on the banks,, 
a beauty too abundant in strength to bend even under the 
storms of sorrow, taciturn, not trembling and whispering at 
the slightest breeze. She was dressed in black without a 
glimpse of color to relieve the vague severity of her appear- 
ance. Although her melancholy garb was tightly fitting 
to her figure there was no impression of dry rigidity, on 
the contrary a certain looseness, that made me involuntarily 
think of the magnolia leaf: dark and polished on the sur- 
face, soft and silvery below. At last, something in her 
features, around her eyes, that told she was no longer 
young and inexperienced. 

I meditated on the strange coincidences in our 
journey of life, how accidents now and then, for 
a fleeting moment, brings together two human beings,, 
who probably will never cross each other’s path again,, 
and yet who in that mometary meeting feel that 
they could get along tolerably well together in this world. 
And how the recollection of this woman in black, as the 
months and years pass on, might sink deeper and deeper 
into the unconscious caverns of my memory, lose its out- 
lines, melt together with other similar impressions and 
dissolve into that chaos of latent vibrations of which 
eroticism, the motive power of all life, consists ; and how 
after years, perchance in some melancholy mood, by glanc- 
ing at some object, or hearing some noise on the street, or 
some other suggestion bursting forth from the momentary 
environment, I might become conscious of a vague light 
spot amid reminiscences of the past, and trying to solve 


6 


the mystery, suddenly perceive the vision of the woman in 
black in a moonlight night on the Mississippi river. 

She was leaning with her elbow on the railing, cheek in 
hands, like Melpomene of old, gazing at the magnolia 
swamps. Was it the odor of their large white blossoms 
wafted across the water, or did she herself exhale that 
heavy perfume which oppressed my senses! 

My worship of nature had changed into that of humanity, 
I longed to loose myself in another human soul. 

I felt like stepping up and speaking to her, yet somehow 
I could not overcome a certain shyness within me, I had 
not the courage to surmount the conventional barriers ; 
instead I imagined how I might approach her, what words 
I would use and what she would answer, and these imagin- 
eries — likely more beautiful than the reality could ever be — 
urged me with new temptations at every step. Irresolute, 
disgusted with my cowardice, I paced up and down and 
whenever I came near her, our eyes searched for each other, 
but in our mutual excitement, timidity and embarrassment 
they often failed to meet and their union was never as 
spontaneous and vehement as in the first recognition of our 
affinity. Yet, I was convinced, were I to find the oppor- 
tunity to make the most commonplace remark about the 
beautiful moonlit night to her, we would have known before 
the first faltering phrases of a conversation had been inter- 
changed, that — to us the most natural thing in the world — 
we were two of those human beings who belonged to each 
other completely. And could it be that in a few hours, at 
our place of destination, the currents of human civilization 
would sweep her in one direction and me in another — 
never to meet each other again and wilfully dispensing 
with an acquaintance that might have meant happiness to 
both of us! 

She now turned, looking over the railing into the moonlit 
waters, flowing, incessantly flowing, like the hours of our 
life to the sea of oblivion. 

Did she know how defenceless a woman in that position is 
to the scrutinising glances of men, not capable of taking 


7 


in all the details of a woman’s appearance directly under 
the gaze of her eyes. The physiognomy of her back was 
at my mercy. The proud carriage of her shoulders! 
What supple sweeping curves from her arm to hip! How 
flat the line of the spinal cord, yet how elastic! — Yet what 
was this! Why were the corners of my mouth all at once 
cynically drawn down as in disgust? Why did all my 
exalted feelings about woman’s worth and beauty tumble 
together into a meaningless heap? Why did I just at that 
moment perceive that the moon was hiding behind clouds 
and darkness lay upon the mighty sweeping flood as on my 
soul? 

I saw her dark dress broken by the glimpse of something 
white. 

How hopelessly indecent all sex relations are in our 
nervous, colorless age! Everything is so suggestive, so 
hopelessly risque in a woman’s dress ; if two buttons of her 
waist are open, or if she lifts her skirt we feel embarrassed, 
for everything in nature is so cruelly distorted by modern 
dress, by our habits, by the arts, the brutality of men, and 
the vanity of women themselves. Everywhere immaculate, 
lilies with debauchery in the debts of their chalices! 

I shivered and, glancing up, saw how anxiously she stared 
at me, as if she were afraid some ill had befallen me, and 
then she looked at me with that look which men usually 
cannot resist, begging for all we had lost. I cruelly, pain- 
fully shook my head, and confused, she hastened downstairs 
with a staggering step. 

I knew that we two could not sit together in the moon- 
light, with that seductive perfume in the air, with the 
apparent affinity of our souls, without falling into the 
banalities of life; and a commonplace pressure of the hand, 
even a kiss would have been a sacrilege in the vast cathe- 
dral of nature, whose soundless symphonies again broke 
into my soul. 


To IV. D. Howells. 


CRITICAL MOMENTS. 

( 1894 .) 

The door bell rang timidly as if avoiding unnecessary 
noise. 

The mother, starting up from her dejection, ejaculated: 
“The doctor!” then in an ardent undertone: “Virgin 
Mary, save, oh save my child.” 

The father made a gesture: “Now we will see,” and 
nodding complacently shuffled into the hall ; he returned 
next moment with a spectacled young man, who by his 
nervous mien, assuming notwithstanding an air of import- 
ance, showed his inexperience. 

He hastily opened his bag and stepped to the lounge 
where a little boy lay bedded among pillows and sheets : a 
long, narrow, emaciated form, like a figure drawn by 
Grunewald. 

The kerosene lamp spread its spare light on the faded red 
cover on the table, leaving the rest of the sultry room in 
semi-darkness. A faint odor of perfumes seemed to lay on 
every object. The clock ticked offensively loud, telling 
with every second that a human life neared its end. A 
half-finished meal stood on the mantlepiece, its drapery 
moved sadly with every draught. Now and then the 
window panes trembled when the Elevated passed by. 

The mother, with beating heart, busied herself in the 
adjoining kitchen, brewing some medicaments which her 
neighbor, a gossiping old maid had recommended to her. 

The father, with lips slightly apart, stupid and helpless, 
as men generally are at such moments, stood behind the 
doctor. 

The doctor at once felt the seriousness of the case, 
shrugged his shoulder and asked for the lamp. The 
father moved the table awkwardly to the bedside, and 
stared at the trembling shadows on the ceiling. 


9 


The doctor felt the child’s pulse, sitting down on the edge 
of the couch, whereby he upset a glass of water ; he looked 
embarrassed at the carpet consuming the moisture, and 
forgot to count. 

The father also glanced down with an expression which 
seemed to imply : “ That doesn’t matter — but the child, its 
all over, isn’t it ? ” 

The young doctor continued to count, moving his lips 
rapidly, then took the temperature, and felt the pulse again. 
It was his first case of the kind ; at college he had always 
neglected children diseases — why bother with them if there 
are such things as female complaints in the world — and now 
in his anxiety he realized that he did not know any more 
than the parents about the ailment of his patient, whose 
breath was scarcely audible at times. He only felt that the 
child was very sick and probably would die under his 
hands. Why hadn’t he refused to come at this late hour. 

Suddenly boisterous dance music and the noise of gliding 
footsteps interrupted the silence. 

‘ ‘ What is that ? ’ ’ asked the spectacles. He still held 
the hand of his patient not knowing what to do , endeavor- 
ing in vain to remember something he had never known. 

‘ ‘ The Hungarians upstairs celebrate a wedding. ’ ’ 

“ My, how can they — I would — ” 

“ They don’t care, they all have more children than they 
want.” 

“That’s so,” smiled the doctor, ‘‘yes, yes, they come 
rather quick, don’t they — therefore one does not feel their 
loss — excuse me — I mean — ’ ’ 

“ But this is our only one,” came plaintively from the 
kitchen.” 

“Oh, is it,” cold perspiration stood on his forehead. 
What should he say, surely he had to say something, and 
he desperately groped about in his bag. 

Then it grew silent again in the little sick-room ; above 
the floor shook with a droning sound under the stamping 
measures of a Czarda as far as it can be indulged in in a 
little flat. 


10 


The confused screaming of joy intermingling with the 
music that poured through the open windows, ablaze with 
light, into the otherwise so silent street, told all curious 
neighbors that the intoxication of wine and the senses had 
well intermingled, that at least in this flat there were 
people who believed they were happy. 

“Well?” The mother came back from the kitchen, 
looking at the two men with an enquiring, imploring look. 

The doctor, in despair at his ignorance, shook his perspir- 
ing head, with tears of shame in his eyes, which the good 
people took for sympathy. 

She shaded the lamp with a newspaper, so that the light 
did not fall on the face of him whose birth had almost cost 
her life, in deep thought took up the little ten-cent china 
statue of the Virgin Mary and put it down again, then 
nodding her head in silent prayer, she sank down in a chair, 
her hands folded in her lap. 

“What good will that do?” said the husband, almost 
roughly, drawing his underlip forward. 

“ Oh, God can not be so cruel to take him away from 
us.” 

“ Well, pray on and see if he will help us. Damn it, I 
wish he could ! ’ ’ 

“ I won’t believe in God any more if he takes him away 
from me.” 

The husband paced softly up and down, now and then 
stopping to put things in order on the mantlepiece, or 
brushing with his hand one piece or another of his scant 
wardrobe hanging in a corner. He thought of the religious 
quarrels he had so often had with his wife, fierce quarrels, 
as they both were stupidly bigoted, he in his unbelief, she 
in her faith. 

“Damn religion altogether! If the child would only 
live!” and he thrust his hands into the pockets of his pants. 
How much had he to pay that doctor, anyhow, who sat 
thre so glum without saying a word. One dollar, two 
dollars, or even three dollars — he had only a five dollar bill, 
how could he change it in the meanwhile ? 


11 


The doctor had a faint smile on his lips, ready to grin ner- 
vously at any moment, should they look at him. 

The noise upstairs continued. It seemed the bride and 
bridegroom had left, and the remaining guests behaved 
more frantic than before. Why not! Such chances of 
enjoying ourselves at the expenses of others after all do 
not occur so often in life. And the young people, madly 
whirling about, grew intoxicated with each other’s presence,, 
and in hungry silly flirtation realized a foretaste of the 
disenchantment of married life. 

Below the cold hand of the dying child lay still in the 
trembling fingers of the doctor, who suddenly let it fall* 
and with unsteady eyes, and blanched face, motioned for 
more light. 

The father mechanically seized the lamp and held it with 
a nerveless arm. 

The mouth of his child lay open, a round black hole, 
the cheeks were hollow, a dark violet ring under the e3 r es, 
the white of which had turned a disagreeable bluish-yellow. 
The hair, without a trace of light, lay in lank strings 
around his face, and the shadow of his nose almost looked 
comical, the father held the light so low. 

4 ‘Dead.” 

‘‘Dead !” 

‘‘Dead!” a frightful scream rang through the room* 
and drowned the noise above. Her fingers had groped 
tremblingly over the clammy body of her child. 

She clenched her fists and bursting into ghastly laughter,, 
tore the agnus dei from her breast and flung it into a corner. 

The band upstairs struck up a maddening gallop. 

‘‘Come, let us be gay with the Hungarians,” and she 
sank sobbing to the ground. In this chaotic moment of 
dull piercing pain she had not only lost her child, but also 
her faith. 

The father stood nodding in the middle of the room. 
‘‘This had to come, but, — ” there was a confusion of 
ideas in him ; he wanted to say some word of consolation ; 
he tried to express something, but could not, something of 


12 


that we all feel in the critical moments of our life, but 
which we never utter, as our human language is insufficient. 
And as if he knew that only music could express such tumult 
and agony, he grunted a few inarticulate sounds . . . , 

ending with, “Well, we must bear it — but as the old 
woman said, this was our only one,” then he felt relieved ; 
his greatest pain was over. 

The young doctor had sneaked away without giving the 
father a chance to pay him. It was a sad experience ; he 
might have died anyhow — yet a sting of conscience 
made him take up the neglected study, and to-day he is 
considered on the Eastside an expert on children’s diseases. 


To D. IV. Tryon . 

DREARY WINDBLOWN YELLOW MEADS. 

( 1896 .) 

The light of an April afternoon sifted through the wind- 
torn edges of dark clouds, surging across a muddy sky, and 
etched large arabesques on the straw-colored, breeze-stirred, 
tufts of sedge, densely covering the shore. The tumult of 
civilization lay far behind this wide and level landscape, 
where only on the horizon an outline rose, blotchy and 
confused, indicating village life. The smell of the brine 
was wafted across the scanty plains, but the sea itself was 
merely a silvery stretch in the distance. And on this peace- 
ful long-drawn afternoon this barren unfavored stretch 
of land lay in silent dread of the travails of spring, when 
everything in nature is reborn, good and bad alike. 

The dark figure of a lonesome wanderer stood amidst 
these pale yellow reeds, dreaming into this scene of desola- 
tion. From the soft pallor of his forehead fluttered a stream 
of dark hair like a discord. The water of the marshes was 


13 


running through his broken shoes and the cold drew 
together his lean and shivering figure. And not a tree 
nearby to huddle close to for warmth! His attitude 
revealed an estrangement from the ordinary clan of human- 
ity. He was so world-forlorn and world-weary, and yet so 
world-defiant as if he were one of the martyrs of humanity,, 
in whom are concentrated all the esthetic aspirations of a 
generation which hates him, because he is thus nobly 
endowed. 

His thoughts roved aimless. Reminiscences rose ghost- 
like within him, while he stared at the shifting patches of 
glowing light, determining in rythmic motion the outline 
of shadows, tempered by lorn caresses of the wind, until 
his eyes began to burn, and the picture before him grew 
more indistinct. He searched in himself. There shim- 
mered something bright and luring. Could he but grasp it!. 
Alas, it proved too fleeting. When he began to realize it,, 
it seemed to be an illusion. Ah, if he could garner it as 
his own, bestow it upon future generations, not with com- 
mon words in the common way as common rliymsters 
absolve their duties. A new style! Vibrating luminous 
aromatic sounds, strangely fascinating in their fanatic 
beauty and mechanism of despair. 

His vision grew more and more unconscious of the out- 
side world ; it reflected the voluptuous luminousness of a 
dream. Substances became shadowy, and shadows grew r 
substantial. 

A garden of fairyland lay before him in the magical 
flush of night, where white jeweled-chaliced flowers glowed 
in flavorous floresence, and large fantastic fireflies, never 
beheld by earthly eyes, fluttered around colored 
lanterns, strung beneath the foliage arches of luminant 
trees. And in the midst of all this glimmering mystic 
gayety without sounds and echoes, withering into uncertain 
darkness, stood, in an attitude of holepess consecration, 
ever leal to a hopeless fate, the pale phantom of a woman 
lithe and childlike, with lips tremulous with weeping ; 
her black hair flooding in dark waves the dia- 


14 


phanous veils — girt loosely around her hips — in the soft 
nuances of dying flowers. On her brow a soft wreath of 
stars shone, cold and sad. He tried to animate this 
spectacle with more radiating color. But however ardently 
he groped amid the treasuries of his fancy and viscerated 
^ach evanescent emotion of his soul, he could not find a 
more luminous diadem, or a smile for her pallid face. Amid 
these vain endeavors the features of the dreamland scene 
and his beloved one became more and more blurred ; the 
lyrical weirdness and the sentiments of loneliness and awe 
around him, touched his soul with faint indefinable accords. 
It was as if his eyes opened for the first time upon that 
Struggling light and shade, upon those dreary windblown 
yellow meads with the acrid smell of the sea- washed soil, and 
the stillness of the distance under the far-stretching roof 
of the darkening heaven ; a picture in which nature was 
not dead, but seemed to hold her breath, calling forth in his 
soul faint tremors, ethereal shimmering sounds that floated 
upwards — then a vibrant pause — a silence of suspension, of 
the faint-hearted heaviness preceding creation. 

Abruptly the stillness was broken, the mighty flapping of 
wings cut the air, and a raven, like a sinister warning from 
some supermundane realm, a ghost from the Walpurgis 
night, ploughed through the dim senescent atmosphere, 
slowly winged its way over the straw-colored desolation 
and dominated the whole scene. 

And the poet gazed after the apparition until it was lost 
like a dark spot on the horizon and the sound of its wingbeat 
had died away, and the misery of his existence and the 
self-sacrifice of womanhood as the fiery undercurrents of 
his mind, he conceived in one of those moments of ecstacy 
and pain — ever barred to you, Philistines, and which are 
worth a whole lost life — the idea which gave to the world 
“The Raven.” 


To Augustus St. Gaudens . 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LIGHTHOUSE. 

(1895-) 

After several months of bitter want, heart-pangs such as 
only a sensitive author endures, and that severe mental 
exhaustion brought about by irregular unsympathetic work, 
every line being a humiliation and degradation of artistic 
instincts, a feeling of emptiness in my brain with other 
neurasthenic symptoms began to torture me, depriving 
me of my two main occupations and pleasures, in making 
reading impossible and also rendering writing at times 
extremely difficult. 

I am obliged to mention this physical decadence, as 
nothing else could have induced me to hire a boat one 
sunny noon, and slowly row away from the turmoil of the 
streets, far, far away into the bay, to one of the lighthouses. 

Although in my nervous vagrom city life, I was always 
conscious of a yearning desire to forget for a few moments 
my everlasting cares — the fabrication of another hack article 
on the German Emperor’s wardrobe, a fictive meeting with 
Zola in a coal mine, or a review of a new opera by Verdi 
dated Milano and written in a New York garret, in order to 
pay a part of the rent, to buy the new work of a favorite 
author, to see some great actor simulate emotion, or to dine 
badly in a French restaurant, in short the endeavor to make a 
reputation and get along somewhat decently in this world — 
I had after all become so saturated with it that even after 
being surrounded for hours by nothing but sky and land 
and fading shore line, I could not entirely obliterate the 
luring music of metropolitan noise and haste. The impres- 
sion nature made on me was too overwhelming ; it invari- 
ably embarassed, enervated me ; after all my various visits 
to the lighthouse I felt completely exhausted. I had to 
take an absolute rest for a day or two, and only gradually 


16 


quieted down to my normal state, when I recalled with bitter- 
ness and renewed longing, the eternal uniform music of 
the ocean and how sublime it was in its immeasureableness. 

The lighthouse, though built on the edge of a steep, surf 
bound rock, was hardly that ideal place sentimental authors 
have kindly foisted upon us. There was no black isolation 
about it. A village with hideous polychromatic summer 
cottages, reflecting in their silly architecture the anarchism 
of our age, was within a mile’s reach. 

The keeper of the lighthouse was a taciturn old fellow, 
short and sturdy, a phlegmatic, self-reliant nature who 
could get well along without people, satisfied with smoking 
his pipe and growling to himself while polishing the brass 
of his lanterns. The bottle of Kentucky Bourbon, which I 
always managed to bring with me, however, made him more 
accessible. His wife, bred in the paltry but self-satisfied 
comfort of the middle classes, was one of those creatures 
who can not get accustomed to new ways, thus she longed 
for the days when she went shopping in her native town, 
promenaded on the avenues with a wasp waist and spotted 
tulle veil, and drove out on Sundays with her best young 
man. Now she had to bring up “ her brats,” and the isola- 
tion of her curious little home and paralian existence 
seemed to weigh upon her commonplace character. 

On one of these visits towards the end of the year, the 
idea struck me that it would be quite a novel experience to 
arrange a genuine German Christmas Eve in the lighthouse, 
and I promised the lighthousekeeper’s wife and children to 
show up when Christmas came, however lack of funds 
prevented me ; the following year the stormy weather made 
the trip impossible. At last, after two years of 
postponement, I arrived toward dusk, with a Christ- 
mas tree, boxes of candles, and candies, and a few 
other insignificant presents in my boat. The old keeper 
recognized me at once and grinned as I shook my bottle of 
Bourbon whiskey at him. His wife greeted me cordially : 
“ I am glad that you have come, it would have otherwise 
been so lonely here to-night.” 


17 


We lugged up the tree, and decorated it and fastened the 
candles. After supper we lit them. The children looked 
with astonished, wide-open eyes at the shimmering tree, 
and after having lost their first moment’s slyness began to 
prance and dance about and shout with joy. The old 
keeper gulped down one glass of toddy after the other, the 
mother smiled, and I recalled with joy my childhood days, 
when for weeks I thought of nothing but Christmas, being 
hardly able to sleep with excitement for some nights 
preceding ; until at last the hour of jubilation came, realiz- 
ing the wishes I had harbored with childish impatience 
for so many days. 

It was an hour of wild invigorating joy. But just as in 
all those exquisite and far between moments in our life’s 
errantry, when we have at last succeeded in finding a 
cosy corner where we may rest a while, instead of enjoying 
it completely, we begin to feel restless and long for some- 
thing else ; and after listening repeatedly to the cadences 
of wind and waves outside, bringing reminiscences of the 
land-maddening emotions of large cities, I stepped out 
upon the platform. 

Darkness surrounded me. A black, dark sky, without 
stars, melting imperceptibly into a still darker sea. A 
monotonous roar like the majestic rythms of Whitman’s 
thoughts, greeted me. From the East the tide came rolling 
in, waves on waves, billows on billows. The very depths 
of the ocean rose in deep furrowed mountains, crumbling 
instantly into foaming rotations, followed by a momentary 
viscous lethargy, undertowing a new upheaval of the sea. 
The world-old hosts of Neptune in long stretched line, dully 
outlined by their grey glimmering caps, row after row in 
regular distances, stormed seething onward, as if chasing- 
each other. And far beneath me they shattered their 
effervescent heads on the stone-work and the foam crept 
high up the masonry. After each attack the roaring and 
raging grew louder, and the hissing waters cursing their 
aimless agitation were thrown back in different directions, 
crossing the eager approach of their sister waves obliquely. 


18 


The wind played wildly in my disheveled hair. With 
my hands on the railing, the wide interminable ocean 
beneath me, the platform, where I stood, seemed like a link 
between human habitation and eternity, life and death. 

And as my eyes looked out with dreamy bewilderment, I 
saw a white spot rapidly coming towards me : a sea-gull 
with fluttering wings dashed directly towards the luring 
light of the lantern, like a solitary human soul rushing 
blindly towards happiness, striving with selfish zeal to 
reach a haven of rest in the beautiful soft glow of a peace- 
ful home. In the next moment she shattered her head 
against the thick panes of the beacon light and fell writhing 
to my feet. 

Stooping, to touch the soft white down of the unfortunate 
bird, who only a moment before had been so full of vigor- 
ous joy, a feeling of despair came over me, realizing that 
all this endeavor to create spmething beautiful in this 
world of rising and falling waves and howling winds, was 
sheer vanity. The sombre depth seemed to beckon to me, 
to leave the black monotony of universal mirk, with all its 
atrocities and infamies, and to tumble back into chaos, 
whence I came. No paltry exit from this tragical farce 
with revolver, rope or Paris green, but to leap consciously 
with heroic joy into eternity. 

I trembled with emotion. The ocean, darkness, death, 
eternity, stormed over my soul in that moment of suprem- 
est joy, such as is granted to us perhaps a dozen times in 
our entire life, for which we have patiently to wait, and 
then make the best of it. With protruding eyes I scanned 
the abyss and fiercely clutched the iron railing, when an 
odor of fir was wafted to me and a warm breath of the 
homewise scene within, like a love-woven nursery song, 
caressed my senses. 

My arms dropped. A complete exhaustion came over me. 
I still endeavored to force my emotion to soar to the majectic 
storm-swept summits where man willingly embraces death, 
but my thoughts had already turned to less imposing 
heights. I had learned to understand why we poor decrepit 


19 


mortals cling to our existence. Needing so much skill 
and strength even to struggle and float on the tempestuous 
waves of life, how could we have the superhuman courage 
to dissolve in it ! 


To Amelie Rives. 

UNDER THE BIRCH TREES. 

(1893.) 

Yes, if on that evening I had known that earthly happi- 
ness can be conjured up from the folly of existence merely 
by forcing ourselves to enjoy pain, many things would be 
different — whether for better or worse — I do not dare to 
decide. 

Just on this spot we sat — about this time of the year — 
while leaf after leaf fell from the birch trees with a soft 
crackling noise and were carried away by the tepid wind. 
It was the hour of twilight ; below our feet lay the city 
wrapt in the rising mists of darkness, then as to-day the 
river wound its way around the city. 

Hand in hand we gazed at the sunset. It was no sunset 
of fiery insuperable colors to intoxicate poets and painters 
with melancholy inspiration. On that evening the sky 
faded vaguely, iuperceptibly, from blue to night, in diluted 
variations of green. And it seemed as if the paleness of her 
face and her white dress had absorbed all light and radiated 
it, while surrounding nature dissolved into dusk. Dike a 
misty vision she rested on the brownish green of this sloping 
hill. 

We did not speak. Our souls were so saturated with 
nature, the under-vibration of that vast purgatory of emo- 
tion which men call love, that we obeyed every suggestion 
of its timeless eloquence. 


20 


Have you ever loved — trivial question to be sure — yet I 
mean, really, truly loved, not merely infatuated for the body’s 
sake, but that the welfare of your heart and brain depend- 
ed on the mutual stimulation of love ? I sincerely believe that 
scarcely two or three out of a hundred human beings exper- 
ience self oblivious love, and can we therefore wonder at 
life being so cheerless, so unbearable to all those who have 
some kind of a soul, and have not yet learned to enjoy pain 
as I do. 

Our love, though not platonic, not free from devouring 
kisses and vulgar flirtation, was wholesome and world- 
defiant. On that evening all was calm and pure, yet in- 
tense, almost bordering on pain. Rochegrosse, I believe, 
could understand that feeling, but Cazin would paint it 
better. Our existences were in a deeper, closer embrace 
than the most nervous and supremely physical fusion 
could ever effect. Tremor after tremor of bliss vibrated 
through my frame. The world seemed out of joint, and the 
air moving in large, mighty rhyms around us. 

So we sat, wrapped in the poetry of our love, forlorn, ex- 
cluded into a world of dreams, and the very silhouettes our 
love-drunk forms made against the pale green sky must 
have been such a sentimental painter would select for a pic- 
ture — and yet how did it come about, that on that same 
evening I took the express train for New York, never to 
see her again ? 

Strange to say, there was no confession, misunderstand- 
ing or quarrel which generally brings about such changes ; 
we did not offend each other with rude words. The change 
took place as rapidly and imperceptibly as the colors of the 
sunset. We were sitting utterly silent, in the same posi- 
tion, while leaf after leaf fell from the birch trees with a 
soft crackling noise and were carried off by the tepid wind. 

If it were possible to explain such sudden changes of feel- 
ing which often determine a life’s happiness, I would trace 
it to the moment when, pressing her head with a loving 
tremor against my breast, she glanced up at me and I looked 
over her shoulder, and the profile of her body suddenly re- 


21 


vealed deficiencies, deficiencies of curves almost typical of 
our American women, which though they tell of refinement, 
also denote degeneration of the female physical form. 
One might get along, after all. Condensed milk is as 
good as mother’s milk, and Rubens’ “ Susannah ” is too fat 
and vulgar, after all. But then deficiencies of form suggest 
deficiencies of intellect and emotion. I should discover 
more and more faults in her that would irritate me, excite 
my temper, render me indifferent to her, and it would finally 
be only a waste of energy in plagueing each other about a 
lost hairpin or a bad cigar. So marriage, I reasoned, with- 
out realizing my thoughts at the moment, is after all but a 
lottery ; even the truest love cannot assure us the great 
prize of happiness, without considering the question at alb 
whether the great prize is really ever awarded or not. 

I was afraid of going the risk. I did not know then 
that happiness can only be found in oneself and never in 
another person. Association with a friend, a wife, one’s 
own children may be the supreme fire, kindling and warm- 
ing one’s whole existence, whose loss would paralyze a part 
of the soul, but after all, it has nothing to do with happi- 
ness. The bite of a mosquito at the funeral of one’s wife 
would outweigh all emotion for the moment. Therefore 
the choosing of a companion for life is not as important as 
one generally thinks. One may prove as good as another. 
And as I held her in my arms and the dread of living life in 
its full strength (/. e. } of venturing, as one can foretell 
nothing), a weakness which has become natural to us in 
our crippled state, tormented me, I felt that she, conscious 
of my thought, was making an effort to solve what troubled 
my brain. 

Had the sunset only been blood-red, the color might have 
inspired her animal spirits, she might have bored her lips 
into mine, and led me over the very deficiencies into the in- 
toxication of the senses ! 

But the pale green sky grew more and more sombre with 
every moment, the landscape became more and more steeped 
in gray, and also her figure grew as monotonous in color 


22 


as the stump of a neighboring tree. She stared into my 
eyes, and tried to solve the mystery that hardened my lips 
and sunk my eyes into my white wan face. And gazing 
into each other’s faces, it seemed to me as if we had entirely 
changed, as if all those features that had been lovely to us 
had assumed a disagreeable ashen hue. A disgust of life, 
like the last streak of green in the horizon, so intense, so 
painful and so weird, that one could almost love it for its 
weirdness, had come over us. And still the leaves fell 
one by one from the birch trees with a soft, crackling noise, 
and were carried away by the tepid wind. 

“ The grass is wet,” she murmured, and, as if b}^ agree- 
ment, we rose together, suffering in every atom, unhappy, 
despairing, without interchanging our feeling by a word, a 
look, or a tremor of affinity in our swooning bodies. 

We walked along side by side, but with a greater distance 
between us than there had been for many a day. As we 
passed a briar rosebush, she stretched out her hand to 
gather a rose, the branch broke off, and the frightened birds 
nestling in the tree flew away. Drops of dew hung on the 
broken flower, which was doomed to die before the evening 
had closed. As she showed it to me with a slow, painful 
gesture, I felt that like the last reflection of ebbing light in 
the landscape, also love was fading in my soul. 


To CMary C. IVilkins. 

THE WIFE OF THE SYMBOLIST. 

(1896.) 

With an absent-minded look, she still held the knob of 
the door, through which a visitor had just departed, and 
softly nodding, she gazed at a book, with a yellow cover in 
her hand. 

It impressed quaintly to see one of those vulgar, sensa- 
sational books associated with this tall refined woman, 
whose every line and feature revealed that she moved in an 


23 


ideal world of her own, one of those women in whose pres- 
ence I could sit silently for hours, dreaming and content. 

To this book, just frivolous enough to please the common 
herd without offending them, they owed their last happy 
years of married life, their long-planned trip to Europe, the 
education of her daughters, and the independence of her 
widowhood, that she could live alone with her books, in the 
fragrance of a peaceful world-secluded home. 

What agony the hypocrisy of this book must have cost 
him ! Through its pages gleamed nothing of his curious 
jewelled art; over there in the bookcase, in the place of 
honor stood, those few thin pamphlets twisted in silver 
rhythms and studded with thought, into which he had 
breathed his soul. 

He had been one of the first symbolists, long before little 
scribbling men and women played at the monstrous sin of 
the decadence, and silly little publications endeavored to 
dilute for American palates the sublime lesson of subtlety 
of Parisian symbolism. He had been of the first pioneers 
in an undiscovered realm, the most trying and ungrateful 
of all tasks in literature, demanding superior courage and 
enthusiasm, the merits of which are doomed to be abused 
and forgotten when mediocrity begins to gossip about it. 

Life with such a man had not been easy. She had ex- 
cused his fits of venemous temper, even pardoned his bru- 
tality when he struck her ; she knew the sensitiveness 
and inevitableness of a poet’s mind, had she not herself 
such a nature, although not creative. She had washed, 
and cooked, lived a wretched life in boarding-houses and 
dark flats, starved and suffered, given birth to her children 
in charitable institutions, and reared them amidst super- 
human vicissitudes, all to make him write his poetry, des- 
tined, in her belief, to rank with the best some day. 

She at least had not sold her life for the benefit of millin- 
ers and dressmakers, but for solemn agitations of words 
that in their sifting dustwards through the strata of human- 
ity would prove philters, evocative of new sublime dreams 
and endeavors, and thus, unlike other women, she had 


24 


given herself proudly, conscious of her sex, to the man of 
her choice, when the right moment had come, having left 
until then their relations pure from all those flirtations by 
which men usually gain women. 

There in her quiet study, with its rugged, dark gray 
tapestry, on which dessins by Steinlen were hung on long 
blue mats in Japanesque simplicity, reflecting the whole 
gamut of modern life, she sat, under the golden light of an 
Etruscan lamp, upon her lap the ‘ ‘ Blue Flower ’ * which 
understood but by so few she had read so often until — per- 
haps to her alone — all the hidden meanings of every sen- 
tence and curious combinations of words had become naked 
and beautiful. 

It told the legend of a luminous leafless flower, of deep 
and satiated blue, growing passionless on the abyss of steep 
mountains. A gay procession in carriages passes by, and 
the tourists bend backward, groping for the stem of these 
blossoms of tremulant blue, which slip out of many a hand 
before they are broken. And with pride and jubilation 
they are fastened to lukewarm bosoms and prosaic button- 
holes. Short is pleasure ; after a few moments the blue 
marvel droops her head, her proud colors fade, and nothing 
remains but an ugly corpse. And the tourists feel pity, 
and good-humoredly reproach themselves, for having wil- 
fully destroyed what was, after all, only a withering moun- 
tain dream, not realizing that on their path of life they step 
unconcernedly upon quite different flowers, often including 
those of love and their own happiness. 

How deep she could look into the heart of that passion 
flower and build a thousand fancies from its mystic burning 
hues. 

With a happy smile she laid it aside, and opened a parcel 
of rare French books just sent to her and which would lead 
her deeper into the significance of French symbolism and 
her husband’s poetry. 

She was soon engrossed in the odorant subtleties and 
vague suggestiveness of individual symbolism. The little 
brochure had so much in common with that of her husband. 


25 


But what is this? Surely it must be an illusion. No; it 
seemed to be an exact translation of the ‘ ‘Blue Flower / ’word 
by word, yet it bore another title. The French author had 
shamefully stolen it, and had become famous by it, while 
her husband had lived and died in obscurity. But the book 
had been published before her husband’s, and the author 
was already dead when the husband issued his. Could it 
be possible ? Her breath caught, her cheeks green ashen. 
In feverish haste her pale long fingers scanned the bio- 
graphical notes, and became convinced of the fatal truth. 

He who to her had been greater than any poet or king, 
the book which she had loved because she believed it the ex- 
pression of his soul, the thoughts which she had treasured 
as his thoughts — were all a lie. And her whole martyrdom 
suffered in vain for a literary mountebank, a thief who 
had broken into another man’s soul, and appropriated 
unscrupulously what had been there accumulated after so 
much mental labor and emotional anguish, no fanatic of 
beauty and ardent mysticist but a parvenue from the ant- 
hill of plebeian greed, a green grocer on the mart of 
material advantages. This explained his failure. His blue 
flower had only a borrowed soul. 

She could have strangled the vampire for the vastness of 
his wrongs, that had drained the best life of her youth. 

For ever lost that to which her memory had gone with 
every glimmer of moonlight that had found entrance into 
her study, with every sough of wind that had rustled in the 
scandent vine of her porch, with every smile that had 
bloomed on her face, with every night that had fallen on 
her ascetic life. 

She sank into her chair exhausted, her head dropped 
forwards with the unshed mist of tears in her heavily 
weighted eyes. The great ambition and joy of her life had 
vanished, and her body had become too weak to give 
further expression to the tempest, surging in her soul. 
(Poor woman, in what starlit realm did 3^ou abide, that 
you did know that American literature in the year of our 
Ford 1899 is dead, that everybody plagarizes in this country ; 


26 


and that when in rare cases, something original is done, 
nobody dares to acknowledge it.) 

* * * 

Her daughter, a perfect image of her own dead youth, 
stepped in, and bending over to kiss her mother’s fore- 
head she endeavored to take the book. 

“ You promised to let me read it.” 

The mother, biting her lips in weary anguish, silently 
shook her head. 

“Why, mother?” 

“ You must not read it,” and she flung the book into the 
fire. 

“But, mother, you told me that every book could be read, 
if done so in the right spirit. '* 

“ Yes, all others, only not this one ;” and her smile was 
vacant, white and acrid. 

* * * 

The following morning the daughter lovingly caressed 
her mother’s hair, “Why, there are a few white hairs; 
they must have come over night. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I am growing old, my child,” and again the 
bitter smile played around her lips as if cut in stone, from 
which no chant of laughter or melody of gladness would 
ever again ring out. 


BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE. 
By A. T. Craig. 


When so many write, as Phillip Brooks once said, — though it is 
more difficult for the writers to reach the top, — at the same time it is 
an advantage to the readers to have such a variety to select from and 
appreciate. Always, too, in spite of the mass, — the unique, — the rare 
and noteworthy come to the fore and hold their own. A gem of Ori- 
ental beauty has recently come into my hands, Sadakichi Hartmann's 
“ Buddha,” surely unique and rare. Mr. Hartmann is one man gen- 
erally left out in the ordinary summary articles on American litera- 
ture. partly because he is a foreigner, and also from the bizarre 
character of his writings ; although he is well known through his 
various books, pastels and his journalistic connection. 

The pages of “ Buddha ” carry one into scenes of tropical vegetation, 
where trains of camels and gorgeous religious processions pass by, 
and where a many-colored crowd adheres to an indolent but fierce re- 
ligious worship. 

A true mysticist is an exotic in American art and literature. In 
painting, A. P. Ryder, the painter of the “ Flying Dutchman,” shows 
this strain distinctly. In fact he and Sadakichi Hartmann are friends 
and have much in common, and both, working in out of the ordinary 
lines, are not popularly appreciated, and perhaps can not be. 

One reason for this also is their indifference to success. Both have 
worked at every creation of their art for years, Mr. Ryder never exhi- 
biting his pictures publicly, and Mr. Hartmann only publishing in 
limited editions. What the mass of human beings do, how they get 
along, their business and the cares which every hour brings with it, 
noise and ambition seem vain to them. Perhaps they have the feeling 
that these are not real, but illusions which lure humanity away from 
the true sense of living. They dislike the ordinary, and in their art 
presume that reality is illusion, that only art is happiness. Both are 
dreamers ; Ryder is a dreamer of moonlight, Sadakichi Hartmann, of 
Oriental and luminous twilights; They walk through life, wherever 
they please, creating worlds of their own. Gardens bloom with heavy 
sleepbent flowers and jeweled colors, or a moon suffused silence lies 
on a shimmering glitter of the leaves. 

They have the magic in them for creating stars and splendor out of 
themselves. Both live in out of the way places, and can be found 


28 


wandering under the heavens in lonesome spots and parks, drunk 
with nature’s lavishness. 

As to Sadakichi Hartmann alone, Mallarme, the leader of the Sym- 
bolist School in Paris, has called one of his books “ a vast fresco such 
as I dream should decorate the pleasure halls of future times. ’ ’ 

Mr. Hartmann is a tall, gaunt figure with black disheveled hair, and 
a pale, dramatic complexion. Friends of literature have watched his 
endeavors, from his journalistic debut in Boston, where he came, a 
youth of nineteen, and without further introduction than the magnet- 
ism of personality opened his way into the editorial columns of nearly 
every paper. From that time he has written now and then, not so 
much for money but for enthusiasm’s sake, articles on contemporary 
literature and art which show a knowledge that probably stands un- 
paralleled in this country. He wrote about Ibsen when no one here 
knew his name. He wrote essays on the leading most modern Scan- 
ginavian and Russian writers, and lectured on Marie Bashkirtseff long 
before her diary was published in England. Indeed, with the last- 
mentioned book, suggestingitstranslation, he went — and was received 
with indifference — to publisher after publisher in New York, who 
afterward would have been very glad to have accepted the opportunity 
for first introducing it. He was also probably the first to introduce 
the symbolistic school of writers to us, and worked with publishing 
houses for the introduction of the new artistic poster before anyone 
else did so. 

All this pioneering he does, because of his rare aesthetic affection, — 
a foresight and a love of those things, which five years afterwards the 
w T orld loves. It has been his pride to possess alone and first, beauti- 
ful things, — that others should learn from him what they should 
possess. 

His fight for life has been fierce and incessant. It is still a struggle. 
He has known hunger. He has lived his writing. Stage carpenter 
at the Munich Opera House ; — a tramp in the streets of London ; — by 
some chance of luck living like a prince in Paris and on a trip through 
Holland ; — on the barricades during the miners' strike in Belgium ; — 
looking for work in the East side in New York ; — man of letters in all 
parts of the world, — these are some of the varied experiences through 
which he has passed. 

If some time a great author comes, — whom perhaps the world effects* 
— who will tear the mask from life, so that we may look at the truth 
of beauty, then Sadakichi Hartmann may have bet n only a poor pil- 
grim who faltered on the way, — or, does he believe that he himself 
may be that one ? 


































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